Sam watched them as they went; the light sending
back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till
they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely.
He now thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape out
of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity was
all-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By
and bye he heard the strokes of spades.
"They are digging the grave!" said he to himself; the cold sweat
started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded
through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evident there was
as little noise made as possible; every thing had an air of mystery and
secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible--a tale of murder was
a treat for him; and he was a constant attendant at executions. He
could not, therefore, resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to
steal nearer, and overlook the villains at their work. He crawled along
cautiously, therefore, inch by inch; stepping with the utmost care
among the dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He came at
length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang; he
saw the light of their lanthorn shining up against the branches of the
trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up the
surface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge, beheld
the villains immediately below him, and so near that though he dreaded
discovery, he dared not withdraw lest the least movement should be
heard.
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